


Exigent Circumstances

by zulu



Category: Street Kings (2008)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2008, for:notatracer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a gun pointing at Tom Ludlow's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exigent Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Notatracer for Yuletide 2008. Thank you very much to my betas, Troutkitty, Daemonluna, Leiascully, and Thedeadparrot. This fic contains dark themes.

**Exigent Circumstances**

There is a gun pointed at Tom Ludlow's head.

The barrel's a breath away from his temple. At this range, a bullet won't ricochet and rip through his skull in a dozen different directions. It'll be a through-and-through instead, taking most of his frontal lobe with it; the bone is thin there. Tom's jaw clenches, his muscle moves so the chill tip of the barrel touches his skin, warms against his pulse. Tom imagines his face blackened with powder burns, blood spattering as his body is jerked to the right by the force of the bullet. The grey-pink mess of his own brains could be the last thing he sees as he falls.

He might even survive the shot. A drooling cripple but he'd survive.

Tom Ludlow is a survivor.

He bends his head forward, takes the cock between his lips, and starts to suck.

 

***

 

Do you want to be a gunfighter?

Santos calls him that, all aggression and half envy. "Hey gunfighter," he says, and grins teeth bared, "you had to be a fucking hero again, didn'tcha?"

"Sad you were late to the party?" Tom says. He feels like the body in a hit-and-run, pedestrian against Mack truck, not even enough of him left to scrape from the freeway. "My heart fucking _bleeds_, Santos."

"Least I don't have your body count, Ludlow--"

"Maybe if you bothered to show up. But then, you've always been a little slow."

Santos' face darkens. His grin turns junkyard dog. He comes for Tom, eyes glittering anger, and shoves him, chest to chest. Santos laughs when Tom gets right up in his face. "You fucking reek, man. Can't take blood without getting shitfaced?"

"Hey hey _hey_," Wander says. He's appeared from the street, crossing the tape without a glance for the uniforms at the door. He's all suit and bullshit, affable for the camera flash and soundbyte hounds outside. He throws an elbow between them and shoulders Santos back. Vise-grip on Tom's shoulder, yanking him away and throwing him against the wall. Tom takes the jolt and misses Wander's careless, crushing squeeze when it's gone, wishes he had it to pin him to the wall. Pain's enough to keep him on his feet but the room's covered in blood that might have been his and vomit burns at the back of his throat.

Demille says it too, low and insinuating. "It don't even matter in your mind that they're dead, does it, killer?"

"They're suspects," Tom says. He aches with exhaustion and tonight's blackout is too far away. "I don't give a fuck if they left a widow and ten orphans."

"That's right," Wander says, slapping him on the shoulder. That grip again and Tom feels solid, present. The room stops spinning. "That's fucking _right_."

Santos shrugs and shakes his head, the smirk all amusement now. Demille raises his eyebrows and laughs.

"Just a joke, Tom."

"Yeah, learn to take a fucking joke."

"Fuck off," Tom says, "you pricks." He shoves his way through them. His shoulders twitch back, his back is stiff, turned on their catcalls and laughter. Under the tape. His car's waiting and Wander's left him a way out that won't put him in front of the press.

Hey gunfighter hey killer.

The Kevlar vest juts into Tom's side, chafes heavy through his sweat-soaked shirt. He closes his eyes and swallows down the heave in his stomach. Easy to tell Santos and Demille to fuck off. Easy to leave them all behind.

Can't do that with the dead.

 

***

 

Tom points at the display and lifts two fingers. Thinks better of it and raises four. The bottles clink as the clerk sets them in the airlock in the bulletproof glass. Tom drops a twenty on his side, waits impatiently for the clerk to finish the transaction. Shoves his change in his pocket without counting it. He takes the vodka by their cheap screwtops and opens the first before he's even out of the store. By now, the alcohol doesn't even burn going down.

 

***

 

"We _do_ need you, Tom," Biggs says.

The sun's rising and Tom's awake to see it. He stares into the glaring pink-orange haze and thinks about burning out his retinas, going blind into the world. Biggs' goon has his service weapon but Tom has a burner in his ankle holster. There's a lot of damage Tom could still do, but Diskant's blood is dry and flaking off his hands, sticking in the creases of his skin, and Wander's dead, two kill shots straight to the heart; he didn't even breathe once after he'd gone down. Maybe Tom hasn't either.

"You were the plan," Biggs says.

Hey killer, Tom hears. Hey gunfighter. There's a hell of a fall in front of him if he goes over the rail, sagebush and cactus and a long, rocky slope back down into the valley.

"So what now?" he asks, his voice rough and dull. Indifference sounds enough like courage, when it counts.

"Now?" Biggs says, like he's never considered the question, squinting up into the sun. He turns to face Tom, leaning at his ease against the fence, one corner of his mouth twitching satisfaction. "Now, Tom, you're mine."

 

***

 

Do you have a complaint?

Did you get a name? A badge number?

Thank you for your report.

Tom writes the reports and files them. Even writes them honest, when he can be bothered. It's two weeks later and he's still chained to Wander's bullshit assignment. The department wants to bury him and there's no one left to dig him out. Too many deaths. Vice Special's being restaffed. Nobody's a hero now, and Tom's taking complaints.

"Do you have a complaint?" he mutters when he hears the chair scrape back, eyes on the report form that blurs meaningless in front of his eyes.

"I never get to see your smiling face anymore, Tom."

Tom looks up. Biggs settles back in the chair, one finger flicking open the button on his jacket. "Is this an interview, Captain?" he says.

"What? No." Tom hates the bullshit sincerity in Biggs' voice, the smugness that brightens his eyes. He leans forward, turning serious, and says, "Thought you could use a break."

That sounds like a promise so Tom takes his lunch break and doesn't give a shit that Biggs is IA and anyone might see. They sit down across coffee that Biggs orders and Tom doesn't wave away.

"I think you're ready to get back to work," Biggs says. His eyes trail over Tom, weighing him up like he's assessing the price on damaged goods. Tom's uniform itches at collar and wrists. He shifts his weight and hates Biggs' knowing smirk.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, looking away.

"It means there are a lot of dirty cops out there, Tom. Your friend Washington knew a lot of them. I think you know more."

"You want me to snitch."

"I want you to do the right thing."

Tom scoffs, jaw tense, scowling out at the street. "I suppose that'll make you commander faster too."

Biggs slams a hand down on the table. Coffee slops over the rim of the chipped cups. "Open your eyes, _Detective_. There's a fucking lot of work to be done and you don't have any friends left."

"Thought you said the commissioner would thank me."

"Not if you're still playing cowboy." Biggs taps the table with his forefinger, leans in to make his point. "It's time someone reined you in."

"I'm not working for you."

Biggs smiles. He sits back and takes his wallet out, covers the price of the coffees that neither of them have touched. He stands up and Tom can feel the weight of his stare, even though he refuses to meet Biggs' eyes. "It's time to start playing nice, Tom." Biggs claps him on the shoulder. His fingers press so firmly that Tom doesn't care about the threat when it comes. "Or you'll end up riding a desk until you quit."

 

***

 

Tom talks for the recorder. Wander, Vice Special, everything he knows. Elbows on knees, monotone mutter as he stares at the floor. Biggs sits behind his desk and asks the questions, his pen scratching the occasional, disinterested note. The office is deserted, late enough that even the most eager rookies have gone home. It's only the two of them and the tape.

When Tom finishes, Biggs reaches for the recorder and clicks it off. "I think this is going to work out just fine," he says. His voice is as scratchy as if he's been the one talking for hours. He stands up, circles the desk and sits on the edge of it, his legs spread slightly. He pats Tom's cheek, as if he was a pet, or a toy. "That's good, Tom. We just want you following the rules."

Tom lifts his head to meet Biggs' eyes, sees his satisfaction there like something naked. Tom feels like he's choking on all the words he's just vomited up. Biggs is too close and Tom would stand up and walk out if he hadn't forgotten how to run away years ago. "Is that what gets you hard, Captain? Ruining other cops' lives?"

Biggs reaches for him again, and this time his fingers sink into Tom's hair at the back of his head and grips, tight enough to force water from Tom's eyes, pulling him back until his mouth opens on a gasp. "You'll let me know when you have a problem with that, won't you, Tom?"

 

***

 

Tom's a cop who burns cops.

Once he was Wander's and he took any mission he got. Like a guided missile. Follow the mopes. Fuck up this dealer, that supplier. Carry a weapon and always be ready to use it long before there's a need. Needles and baby parts, Tom made as many messes as he cleaned up, and every time he finished there was Wander to stand him up in front of the press, the police commissioner, shine his shit and call it gold.

Now Internal Affairs needs him--no. Biggs needs him. Tom takes from that what he can, that he walks the line that nobody else would dare.

If he's ever caught, Biggs will throw him to the wolves. "Make no mistake about that, Tom. Cross the line and you are finished in the LAPD."

Tom sneers and goes his way. Requisitions enough small arms from the weapons locker to conduct a private war without raising an eyebrow. Cops can do what they want, whatever the hell they want.

There are five, ten, twelve empty, tiny bottles crushed on the floor of his car when the black-and-white pulls up beside him in the parking lot. Tom's in the driver's seat but he knows fucking better than to drive. Keys are jangling in the ignition but only for the air conditioning and the hiss of the radio. Tom's just fucking _sitting_ there, listening to the dispatcher's calls and tracing the lines of all the dirt through the city. Some uniform's tapping a nightstick on his window and Tom doesn't give a rat's ass.

The night is stinking hot, all diesel and piss, when Tom unrolls the window. He squints and waves his badge at the shadow-face behind the flashlight. "Call Captain Biggs," he says.

He used to say, "I'm Vice Special, you fuckers, call Wander." Now it's Biggs who grabs his arm when he yanks Tom into his office, after the uniforms still insist on dragging him in. It's two in the morning. It's not Tom's shift and it's not Biggs'. He's not even wearing a suit, called in special just for Tom. The office is dead and dark on the upper floors.

Biggs slams the door shut hard enough to make the blinds rattle. He waved off the officers and left them laughing at Tom for getting chewed out by IA once again. "What the hell do you think you were doing?" he asks.

Tom stands in the center of the room and follows Biggs with his eyes. "Come off it, Captain. I'm not even on duty."

Biggs shakes his head, and Tom wonders if there's anybody in the world who believes that bastard's smarmy smile. "You were breaking the rules, Tom," Biggs says, and Tom knows what that means.

It's almost a relief to drop to his knees.

 

***

 

"Ever find out who was fucking your wife, Tom?"

Biggs' voice is soft. Tom's body tightens behind a punch he can't throw. Middle of the night again and it's become a pattern. This time he's not on his knees; instead, the edge of Biggs' desk digs into his hipbones. He strains his neck to lift his face away from Biggs' paperwork. Biggs has one arm twisted up behind him, the other hand yanking open his pants and stripping them off his ass, one knee nudging his legs apart. Tom's lungs feel like they're on fire, like every breath is drawn over powdered glass.

"Tell me about her, Tom. Luisa, that was her name, wasn't it?"

Shut up, Tom says. Shut _the fuck_ up. The words don't come out because it'll only go harder if he speaks. Biggs likes to talk; he can't give up his bullshit, not even for this.

Tom never did find out who Luisa was fucking, although he has his suspicions. More since Demille and Santos talked about Grace and Linda Washington like they were the first-place prizes in Wander's game of keeping secrets.

Biggs' cock is hard against Tom's bare ass. Tom feels the heat of Biggs' body muffled by his clothes, sharp and immediate when Biggs breathes against his neck. "You do think it was someone in the department, though, don't you, Tom?"

Wander. Ever since Tom squeezed the trigger, once and twice, the gunshots bursting open red and slick beneath Wander's shirt, he's wondered. That fucking coroner would have bent over for Wander, held back the rape kit or anything else useful Tom might have used.

Tom grits his teeth against Biggs' first thrust. God. _God_. The blood spread across Wander's shirt as he fell. His body thudded to the floor too heavy to have ever been a living thing. Not Tom's boss, best friend, the one man he'd trusted. Biggs pumps forward and Tom's body jars the desk. His ass burns and he clenches down, trying to prevent Biggs from finding a rhythm, but Biggs pushes again and Tom can't stop a sound from escaping his throat. The ligature marks from the cuffs were purple-dark against Wander's wrist--Biggs showed him that much, afterwards. And even as Wander was loaded, sheet-covered, into the ambulance Biggs called, Tom wanted to know if he was the one. If Tom had finally fucked up the guy who got away.

Somehow Tom is hard, his dick trapped in his pants. He can't hold himself up and his arm feels like Biggs is tearing it loose at the socket, pushed up high and keeping him facedown on the desk. A minute longer and the rough, jerking pain stops when Biggs comes, hot and suddenly slippery enough that Tom actually leans into the last few thrusts and moans.

Biggs pulls away before Tom finishes--before he can even get started. His weight lifts off Tom's shoulder but Tom can't even start to move. He listens to Biggs wiping himself clean and zipping up his pants. "I'm sorry about your wife," Biggs says behind him, and for once he sounds sincere.

Tom's heart stops, and he remembers Luisa as she was. Fucking Biggs. If he was more of a bastard, he wouldn't be able to twist the knife one last time. And Tom is left empty, without even that hate to hold onto.

 

***

 

"No teeth, now, Tom."

Those are the rules and Tom knows them. Biggs' voice is smug and hot, his cock flushed and hard in front of Tom's lips. Biggs' hand fists his hair and then lets go. His fingertips tap Tom's mouth. There's always a punishment if Tom disobeys.

But Biggs likes teeth; he likes it sharp and painful.

And Tom, well. Tom likes the punishment.

 

***

 

"Your girlfriend's dirty, Tom." Biggs settles into Tom's visitor's chair, interlocking his fingers and setting them on his stomach.

Tom stares at Biggs across his desk. "Fuck off, _Captain_." It's mid-shift and anyone might hear. Not that anyone's interested in listening in on Tom's conversations these days. He's Biggs' errand boy and he gets nothing but backhanded jeers and contemptuous silence from the rest of the precinct. IA has an open file on more guys with reputations as good cops than they had on the whole department now that Wander's not there to protect them.

"Everyone's dirty." Thoughtful, as if this is all some deep shit he's talking and purely theoretical. "I'm dirty, your patron saint Wander was dirty for years before you ever knew. _You're_ dirty, Tom. You think there's someone in this world who isn't?"

"And so you're telling me that Grace is--what? Taking money?"

"Drugs, Tom. Morphine. She has access and the street price is nothing to sneeze at."

Tom looks away from Biggs slowly. His ribs ache and his chest compresses until he has to push to breathe. He doesn't believe a word of it. "You have some evidence, or do you just like fucking with me?"

Biggs raises his eyebrows, as if Tom's anger is a surprise. "Do you really need me to answer that?"

"Stay the hell away from Grace." Tom knows exactly what Biggs is doing. Everyone in Tom's world is dead and tainted. Luisa, fucking some other man and dying before Tom ever knew. Santos and Demille, taking potshots at him and laughing at the idea of burying him in the hills. Clady, his body heavy and pushing against Linda Washington's, dead before Tom realized how hard he was hitting. And Wander, conciliatory at the end, even as he was trying to cross Tom one last time. Everybody's dirty. Everybody crosses all the lines they think they can get away with, and everybody's out for theirs.

With a smile, Biggs stands. "Nice chatting with you, Tom."

 

***

 

It's not what it is, it's what it looks like.

It looks a hell of a lot like Biggs loves cock. Loves slamming a hand between Tom's shoulder blades as he shoves him down on his desk and opens his belt with the other hand. It looks like he loves to twist his fingers in Tom's hair when Tom's sucking him off. It _looks_ like Biggs fucks him until he bleeds and then sends him out again saying, "Next time call a cab, Tom."

But that's not what it is. Biggs is married. Biggs has a little boy not yet five. Biggs runs Internal Affairs and Biggs catches all the dirty cops, as long as Tom's finding them and Tom's ratting and Tom's fast hand on his gun is the only thing keeping him from becoming a statistic.

 

***

 

A cop who burns cops has a very low life expectancy. Backup is just a few minutes slow. If a stray bullet hits him, no one's going to bother about which side it came from. There's a target painted between Tom's shoulderblades.

The whispers of _copkiller_ follow after him. Faces turn blank before they carefully look past him. Diskant was popular and Clady was a good sergeant, and nobody had a problem with Demille or Santos. Even Washington's death follows him. When Tom drives by Linda Washington's house there are no lights and the lawn is turning brown with the heat and weeds. At least she's gone; at least he has that.

Hey gunfighter, how fast are you? Do you sleep with one eye open?

There's a gun pointing at Tom Ludlow's head and it's the one he keeps under his pillow. Grace hates it but Tom wakes to every sound with one hand reaching for his piece. It's closer than his badge because his badge isn't what's keeping him alive these days. Some nights he spends all night cleaning it, looking in on Grace between rounds of pacing, throwing back beers like they're water. She can sleep. Tom watches her from the bedroom doorway and tries to erase Biggs' words from his memory.

Tom leaves for work before she wakes up, to avoid the look on her face when she smells the beer on his breath and seeping from his pores.

He works in circles, following the money, following the dope. He jacks Quicks up and gets a time and an address out of him. Three vodka shots later, he's kicking in a door.

"Hands up. Hands _fucking_ up!"

Shots, and Tom ducks behind a wall, returns fire. The meaty sound of a bullet hitting bone, the thud of a body, and the gurgle that follows throws up the image of Diskant before his eyes: blood gouting from his neck, his hands raised as if to hold his life in. Tom shoots again, yells, "On your faces, get the fuck _down_, or I swear to fucking God I'm shooting every last one of you."

Some time later, there's the sound of sirens, the red-and-blue splash of lights. Biggs is there, directing the cleanup and the cataloguing of evidence. A brick of heroin, enough firepower to take out a city block, even in East L.A. Tom watches it all and tries to shake the sirens out of his head, long after they've been silenced.

Duck and run. Rat and run. Tom busts up another meeting of cops and robbers and doesn't care about the difference between them. That's Biggs' job and Tom leaves him to it. He doesn't care and cares less when he's drunk. He goes home and gets as drunk as he can and he still can't forget to keep that gun under his pillow. Loaded, safety off.

 

***

 

Tom's dick aches, strains against his jeans. His throat relaxes around Biggs' cock and he goes as deep as he can, trying to choke himself. Tears start in his eyes but for once Biggs' hand in his hair doesn't push for more than he can take. The pain of his constricted erection the only thing that's keeping him from coming. Nothing's reciprocated. If he's lucky he'll get five minutes in the locker room without somebody walking in, so that he can jerk off in three long pulls thinking of Biggs slamming his face against the desk and fucking him dry.

 

***

 

There's a gun pointed at Tom Ludlow's head and whose it is doesn't matter.

"Suck it, Tom," Biggs says, and the smell of another alley, another night rises up to slap Tom in the face. The barrel's cool, practically a caress against his cheek.

Tom's knees are cut and bleeding. Ragged holes in his jeans let in the alley filth, glass and gravel working their way deeper. Tom licks his lips and dips his head lower. Listens for Biggs' moan, tries to feel the tensing of his thighs and stomach that means he's going to come. Easier for Tom to wipe semen from his face than to swallow.

Fuck, he hates that cloying, bitter heat in his mouth.

 

***

 

There's a gun pointing at Tom Ludlow's head.

Tom's finger rests on the guard. The grip fits in his hand perfectly. Every part is in perfect working order. He's loaded a new magazine and racked the slide, a bullet slipping easily into the chamber.

Hey gunfighter.

Hey killer.


End file.
